Thieves and Sweet Rolls
by Isolde Necrophilia
Summary: Brynjolf teaches Sofie her first lesson in thievery. - implied Dovahkiin/Brynjolf -


Brynjolf is practically watching the child salivate from the edge of her mouth; she's been eyeing the mammoth sweet roll in the center of Honeyside for so long! She reminds him a bit of himself as a boy, except the sweet roll was a small bag of coin, and he didn't wait as long as she to obtain it. He feels a little guilty; the small party her adoptive mother is throwing is progressing very slowly; she's mirroring Maven Black-Briar by conversing with every single person in the room and seems to have no intention of serving any time soon.

"Why don't you take a bite, lass?" he asks her; she looks over her shoulder, meets his emerald optics, and releases a long, theatrical sigh.

"Momma said to wait," she explains. "She said I have to wait until after I've eaten my meat."

The Nord laughs gently. "And you listen to everything she says?"

The girl's face flushes; she looks around the room, just in case anyone is watching, before shaking her head. "No!"

"Well, then," Brynjolf grins and kneels to her height. "Remember how I promised I'd teach you a few things when you got older? I think you're ready for your first lesson."

Her eyes become as wide as the platter the desert is resting on. "What do you mean?"

"You'll see," he winks. "First step – look around. Is anyone watching?"

The girl swallows hard and sweeps the room once more; two children are fighting one another in the corner while the adults sip wine from their goblets. "Umm. . .no?"

"You don't sound very confident, little lass – are you _sure_?"

"Yes," she says after a shaky breath. "Yes, I'm sure!"

Brynjolf chuckles. "The next step is to take whatever you've set your eye on. Go ahead – dip your finger in the frosting."

She gasps. "But Momma –"

"It's be between you and me, lass" he assures her, giving a gentle push.

She rakes her bottom lip against her teeth; she's making the judgment – is it worth getting in trouble for? A taste of the sweet roll she has been so deprived of? What are the consequences? Aye, but she goes for it, and dips her short index finger into the topping she has craved for so, so very long – and she licks the evidence, cherishing it, and Brynjolf can't help but to laugh and dip his finger, too.

But someone was watching.

"_Sofie_. What do you think you're doin'?" Artemisia's voice slices the air. Sofie's finger pops from between her lips and she's gasping – half looking at her adoptive mother, half looking to Brynjolf for guidance – and he's amazed she hasn't begun screamin' bloody murder.

"N-nothing, Momma!" she says – oh, no – "Brynjolf told me to! He _made _me!"

"Aye," Brynjolf examines his own finger for any traces of evidence. "Did _not_."

"Did, too!" she cries, her face flushing red. Desperate, she groans, "Ohhh! It's my birthday!"

"You're daft if you think the guards aren't goin' to lock you up to rot because it's your birthday," Artemisia scorns at the two of them. "Go play with the others – and never listen to a Nord with an _enormous_ nose. Understand?"

The girl huffs and does as she's told – "Yes, Momma."

Brynjolf stretches his legs and dips his finger into the sweet roll again. "That was a bit unnecessary, lass."

"'ey – no second dipping!" his protégé kneads her brows. "It's true – you do have a giant nose."

"It matches my other appendages," he grins, poking his finger into his mouth. "But I meant your other comment. You shouldn't lie to her – the guards'll erase any bounty if it's your birthday."

Artemisia leans against the table supporting the birthday sweet roll; she casts her gaze across the room before slyly reaching behind her to tear a chunk and plop it in her mouth. "I dunno how to do this whole parentin' thing. I told her she could live with me, and she started callin' me 'Momma'. She looks at me like I really am – but I'm never around. She should be callin' Iona tha'! An' she thinks I'm an adventurer or somethin' – she says she wants to be just like me. Why doesn't she want to be a bard, like a normal chil –? Oi, you laughin' at me?"

He is. "Never knew you had a soft spot, lass!"

She sulks. "Tha's what your ma said."

Brynjolf breaks another piece of the cinnamon-bread-fluffy-sex. "You're worrying too much about all of this. The girl's been raising herself; she's got a good head on her shoulders. If she gets in too much trouble, she's got us to teach her how to break out of jail."

"I s'ppose you're right," Artemisia plucks another piece, and realizes over a third has disappeared. Oops. "But you're a bad influence, Brynjolf, an' I'll be watchin' you – oh, hmn. I wonder how Maven would react if I asked a favor. Sofie's got a business spirit. She sells flowers, you know – maybe that old bag can teach her a thing or two. Not like Ingun'll pull her head out of her arse any day soon."

The thief doesn't seem to particularly care that the sweet roll isn't being shared amongst the rest of the party-goers. It's damn good. "You might as well sell her off to a vampire," he frowns, cleaning the buttery residue onto his 'fine' clothes. "Mallory can teach her a few things about doin' business."

She chokes. "An' tha's better?! She'll be molested!"

"No," Brynjolf frowns and pats the poor woman's back as she coughs up particles of dough. "He'll weight 'till she's of age. He's a good lad."

Red-faced and teary-eyed, Artemisia clears her throat and tries to wheeze through the irritants tickling her throat. "Tha' bastard needs to get laid."

"Vex is comin' around. She's gettin' as desperate as he," he remarks playfully. He reaches back with the hand not occupying Artemisia's spine only to find no shreds remaining – only the delicious core of the sweet roll. He tears it in two, offers one half to his partner-in-crime, and plops the other half in his mouth. "We should get together some time, lass."

"'rr-ooh-ass'in'-ee-ouh?" she mumbles through the pastry.

"Aye, lass, I'm asking you out."

She shoots a 'what the hell' stare, and he's unsure how to interpret it – so he waits.

"How do you understand me?" she demands. Oh.

He shrugs.

She licks her fingertips – "Sorry, lad, I've got important things to do. Maybe next time."

Poor Brynjolf. Sofie's running by the team when she glances at the sweet roll – and realizes there's nothing there. "MOMMA! WHAT HAPPENED?!"

Artemisia shrugs. "Someone stole the sweet roll. You should tell one of the guards."

**A/N : **This is a bit ridiculous, a bit stupid, and went on a lot longer than it should have. It was supposed to be just a short fluffy piece – I adore the fact that Brynjolf is so good with children. It just makes my ovaries squeal. :3

Anyway, I finally decided on a name for my Dovahkiin! Artemisia – after the seventeenth century artist. She was one of the few female artists of her time who were accepted into a 'man's profession' and at the age of fourteen, was raped by her teacher. She and her family tried him because he refused to marry her (the mentality back then was 'you break it, you buy it'). He stated nothing happened, so she was tortured, and never lied – she then continued a successful career by mostly painting powerful, violent images of women in a variety of contexts.

Just so you know, in case you missed that reference. (;

So after reading four pages of nonsense, please review – critiques are very welcomed and encouraged. Also, I want to write a Brynjolf romancey type deal; I've started a million with the Dovahkiin, but I'm not content. I was thinking about pairing him with Sapphire? So who do you guys ship him with? Male or female?

I. N.


End file.
